#numanbeing

In the most bright rays, everything beneath, crystal clear in appearance, the lakes shimmering, the green grasses radiant and full, all what the young sky saw, was lit bright by the fatherly sun.

As the new sky grew accustomed to the never ending mornings, the inevitable day came when the fatherly sun had to set.

"I have shown you all the bright sceneries that needed to be introduced. Now I must set, for its time for the moon."

The young sky deeply dependent on the mornings, felt deeply terrified, as each minute sunk the sun deeper into the sea. The previous sunny shade tainted on the sky, turning into grim hues of crimson. Oh how terrified the young sky felt.

As the entirety of it, reached a shade so pitch, it felt despair beyond words. Never had the young sky been met with such darkness. Never had the young sky been without the sun.

It feared the night from the depth of its clouds, slowly peeking from the navy shades, out came the moon.

She was not so bold like the sun. The view she introduced all dim and blurry. As though all basking in her radiance had a mystery of their own.

For a leaf was a leaf when the sun shined.

For a lake was a lake when the sun shined.

But underneath the moon, the leaf was trembling out a deep story, from within its hidden roots.

The lake was still enough to reveal glimpses of life swimming inside of it.

Every existence underneath the moon, although blurry in appearance, their depth underneath was made much more visible.

The young sky slowly grew enamored by the depth beneath the surface, although the fear of the sun never rising again, made it so very anxious.

The young sky gave the night a chance.

As it tolerated the night, observing it deeply, the dawn arrived and the previous shade of pitch began turning amber. It was apparent to the sky, that the sun was arriving.

And how happy it made the sky.

But as each dawn evaporated back into the evenings, the young sky felt itself waiting for the moon to arrive.

For the young sky realized, nomatter if it is the morning or the night, it is forever accompanied by a face of light.

It was red and pure.

Well-fit for me, fated to my feets.

We were meant to walk together, a million mile.

Right in the box, I kept her with love.

Eager to walk our first step, together.

For she was meant for me, so was her endurance.

But in came, a distant cousin.

Borrowing my pair, she walked a 1000 miles with it. I counted her every steps.

After her, came a forever friend.

Yet again borrowing my pair, she walked a 1000 miles with it. I counted her every steps.

All of the use, rendering her tired.

And when my turn came, right in the middle, worn out she became.

I asked in my grievance, "was where I wanted to go, too far?"

"Did I walk you too much?"

"Could I have been too much?"

With a torn sole, and a bruised red leather, she spoke,

"For you alone, If I was.

For your feet alone, If I was.

Wherever you aimed was within my reach.

For I am not meant to be shared."

Your destination, a million step away.

Your destined shoe, capable of walking a million step.

Its sharing minuses many, and as you walk off, right in the middle, before the reach, your fated shoe gives out.

There are somethings meant just for you.

Made to endure whatever of yours.

Do not let anyone make use of it.

Look at the porcelain cup that had to break, for you to learn that some things must be handled with care.

Look at the fragile glass that had to be shattered, for you to learn that some things can never be mended back again.

Look at the person you have had to lose, for you to learn that not everyone will remain steady and stay.

The fate of those, made to be a lesson.

In the cupboards full of hundred cups, one was there, just to be a lesson.

In the rack full of plates, one was there, just to be a lesson.

Have you ever been a lesson to someone?

As though, them breaking you, was all meant, for them to learn to better care for someone next.

So much to be.

So many things to end and complete.

So I fret and I dread.

So I panic and I pace.

Alas, a voice sings,

"In the mean time, what shall you do?"

If all of this is but a process, that takes forever of my life.

I say,

"In the mean time.

In the mean time.

I shall live and I shall sing.

I shall dance and I shall be."

Coming by an appointment, I end up earlier than required.

I am here at 5 and it starts at 7.

I wait and I wait for my turn.

The vast distant between the 5 and the 7, so calm consuming.

I pace the square room, the time irkingly ticking slow.

And in all of my impatient fury and dread, I hear a little bell ring down park.

A colorful truck selling sweet treats, buried with many eager children.

The jolly swaying tails of dogs taking their owner for a run.

The empty park benches with only the autumn leaves in the seat.

And I realize if the distance between where i am and what needs to be met is so far apart, why not in the mean time, I take a stroll down that park. Eat some ice-cream, pet some dogs, sit beside an autumn leaf.

As I do all of that, while I wait for the time to come, I will notice that time becomes more swift when I am not counting all of its ticks.

When i am not looking, time runs.

When i am looking, time stops.

As if a little game, we play.

So, I will look away.

In the mean time.

The precious years that is from the start of 11 to your 20s, a common sense it is that they will never return once they are past.

Early 10s, a very hopeful age. When the frontal lobe isn't fully there, we rarely are too deep into the ocean that is our self. We don't face, as we should, our own personal struggles. Because that age needs none of that seriousness.

But as we move past 15, something in us starts becoming aware. Not aware as in, how something is making us feel, but mostly what is happening around. That is when the sour relationship of our parents starts bothering us, the stability of our own house starts becoming a major concern, the outside playground strictly forbidding any child past 14, gives us a shove, pushing us into our own home. That is when we take notice of our surrounding life, which is at that age, our parents, the home they build, the peers in school, etc. That is when a seed of lens sprouts, that looks at another with a slight distrust. "My parents are a mess and so is my house. What good are you? How good can this place be?" This starts being voiced to our minds, the early, "hey I like you, lets be friends." Starts becoming, "Can I trust you? I think you will betray me? What if I ask you to be my friend and you laugh behind my back or reject my offer?" This kind of worry starts spreading its roots.

Hesitation begins to be installed in your system like brakes in a car. Only in path full of potholes or an upcoming possible cliff requires such powerful brakes but when the path is steady yet the traumatized instinct of yours keeps pushing the brakes, driving starts to feel like a chore, a stressful antic, something you never want to do.

Life is partly serious and partly whimsical. It always has been like that. But depending on the age, and your measuring mind, that decides what percentage of seriousness or whimsy to show you. You live on. But as though a sudden switch right around 14, your mind begins exposing you to the seriousness that always was there. You start being introduced to such new shade of life that your younger self will have a hard time to process in a more healthy way.

The sudden switch to goth, emo, cynical quotes and ideologies, every change that your habit ingests, a coping mechanism to process that new exposure.

Things start very simple. Mom is mom. Dad is dad. Home is home. Mom is someone who birth me. Dad is someone who brings home the bacon. Home is where we live. This simple things starts becoming deep. Mom is actually a bit insane, dad a bit reckless, home a bit chaotic.

And then, with time it starts getting more and more complex. "Why is mom and dad being so fussy about stuff, are we poor? Why are they always fighting do they not love each other anymore? What about me then?" Etc etc.

These starts growing inside.

The more serious the once simple outlook on things and people becomes, the more hesitant you grow. A sign of a new installed brake.

But when these precious years go by, with you drowning in hesitation. Around your adult years you will have no good stories to tell.

Never will I suggest, to be okay with failure or severe disappointments. Those are something in the extreme territories.  But always be open to fall. The term fail, is like a conclusion, as though someone is stamping a mark on you, inked bold red, that will never wash away.

But falling is a different thing.

You can get up, over and over and over again.

When you are an adult with a weak knee? Thats going to be a nightmare.

But with a young bone, getting up will be easy.

Fall, as in ask someone out and be told no.

Fall, as in ask someone to be your friend and have them say, sorry we don't vibe well.

Fall, as in go outside your house and meet people and dare to connect even when your parents back home are failing miserably to do so with you.

Fall, as in make a fool out of yourself.

Fall, as in dare to be different.

Fall, as in speak up in class! Make that funny joke even if it lands flat.

Fall. Its going to be okay.

Failing becomes a bit more processable when adult, but on the flipside falling becomes a bit inconvenient.  Because the grit will be there, so will the frontal lobe but with a weak knee.

But for you, in this youthful age of yours, the term fail is something you do not mesh will with, because it is a conclusion and you are a growing child that doesn't need such labels that restricts potential. Falling is your criteria though, you will fall, perhaps a thousand times. But each time you are on the ground you will have a hilarious joke to tell about it in the future, to your adult colleagues and friends and family.

Live well. Don't be too reckless but don't be too hesitant either.

You are the water and you are the stone.

So each time when the water flows fiercely in reckless speed, hitting the stones, causing a crash, creating cracks, this will all come back to you.

Don't think of yourself as a water and push hard all the stones.

Don't think of yourself as a stone and block all the waters flowing ahead.

Because when you think you are one, when you are both simultaneously, you will always put yourself through a hard time.

Whatever your parents are like.

Whatever your homelife is like.

Whatever your school has become.

Whatever your classmates have become.

Dare to live past that. Whismy is right around the corner.

Your precious youth should not be lived burdened by circumstances and people outside of you.

When the waterpipes in your house is leaking, you notice it before going to school but you don't drown in that knowing, worrying and worrying, filling your head with, "oh....the pipe in my house is leaking..." you know very well, you don't know how to fix it and there is someone who can.

That makes it not your problem.

People make it sound selfish, but its not.

When its your time and your turn, you will know how to fix leakage, the iffy lightbulb, the doorknob, etc etc everything that is wrong in your house.

But when its not your time and turn, live for your sole self and be unburdened. That's someone else's job.

If adulthood is a promise that tells us, "after this age we will only eat stale bread, and no flavor or color will have a place in our life." Doesn't that encourage us even more to consume well, colorful, flavorful things before we get to that point?

Preparation is a very agitating term for me.

I do not like when someone shows harshness and introduces despair early just to say, "i am preparing you for the big world."

Especially when its done by parents.

If the outside world that we step in after we reach 18, only ever serves stale bread and rotten milk. Shouldn't the house we live in, until that time comes, feed us hearty meals?

What's the point if even the house we live in for that 18 whole years never lets us taste what a good meal is. With no idea of what an actual supper is, we go about the adult world meeting yet another stale bread and rotten milk for life.

Thats just not how it works.

If your school serves you stale bread, eat hearty meals at your home.

If your house serves you stale bread, eat hearty meals at your school.

If both of those places are "preparing you for the worst early on" lean on your friends, hobbies, music, creativity, passion, memes, jokes, games, guitar, piano, studies, whatever.

Always slither away from someone's military bootcamp bullshit and find a way to live well, have fun, make core funny "the i am cracking up just by thinking of it" kind of memories. When life and people begin to show the serious side of living, never forget to lean on the whimsy that is just beside it.

Perhaps when we are small, we have an attention span of a goldfish. Maybe thats why only one thing at a time we can perceive.

Maybe thats why first we met whimsy and around our teenage years we met seriousness.

One at a time, life introduced its two faces.

But when its time and we are ready to see the whole of life, which happens rarely even as an adult, see both side of life, simultaneously.

Don't worry, whimsy and seriousness stand side by side, it won't criss cross apple sauce and make your eyes each go their separate ways.

Sometimes in most adulthood, people filter things like coffee. They drip and wait with patience for the littlest amount of that one particular thing that they are looking for.

They see whimsy but will choose to lock in on the seriousness. To bring out their preffered results.

We each are painting something.

And how we color that, depends on us.

Sometimes we want to color that flower red but red in itself is too serious for us so we mix it with a bit of pink and orange which was also in the palette.

But some don't do that. They keep coloring their flower with the most serious shade of red.

That is their choice.

But what will be yours?

Adulthood is inevitable. Cynicism is written in the stars. Pessimism is fated. Despair is unavoidable. So is hope and wellness.

We are like new skies, that only ever had mornings.

The moment we turn a certain age, night begins to come.

The sun sets and we panic.

"What is happening? The sun is sinking? Where is it going? Why is everything getting dark??" But as it happens 10 times, 20 times, and as every morning brings the return and rise of the sun.

The new and young skies, will learn, "oh it was just a night. Eventually morning always, always, always comes. I don't have to be scared."

You young skies, will learn to meet the night with such dignity, I assure you.

You will learn more than those who came before you, about the night, you will give it such grace, you will give the darkness meaning, naming it "the time and turn for the moon who is just as bright and lovely as the sun but with previous poor luck and compatibility with a sky that actually makes it seen."

You will live well.

Even when you fall.

You will continue to live well.

A heavy deforestation in existence has been happening, and to you who feel like a small sprout in comparison to the big trees around you.

Just know, you are the young seed sent to the existence to bring back the green.

The new crowd of trees yet to stand, but who eventually will.

Sometimes its easy to think there is not much purpose for our birth.

The previous predecessors had purpose, whether it be language, food, cultivation, culture.

And we think since everything is already been done, what is their for us to do, to give our existence meaning and purpose.

But I believe, you were born in the most detrimental times of living, to save the forest of life.

That is your purpose.

Every green is wilting, and you are the newly planted seed.

A shellfish was a shellfish.

After the intrusion inside its flesh.

It became all about the pearl.

The flesh inside, from the very early identity, not of an interest any more.

Now it had become all about the shiny pearl buried inside the folds.

Men, a shellfish.

Intruded by a foreign cavity.

All year long, living in ache, producing a fine pearl from inside.

After all is done, he becomes the product of all his tragic making.

And he will forget who he was, before the cavity.

He will remember himself, as a pearl.

Nolonger the shell, nolonger the flesh.

Just a shiny little pearl.

Much beautiful in price.

Adornable and easy to be sold.

What pearls have the world farmed inside you?

Has its glory strayed you away from all your beginnings?

Dear shellfish clutching the pearls,

The you, you were,

Before all of this.

Do you remember or have you erased your memory?

The world might be filled with necks longing to be adorned. And out of you, a pearl or two might arrive.

The world will wear it on its neck, that is no doubt.

But a shellfish you are,

with a loyalty towards the flesh, once stung by a grain.

For that, you must never name yourself a pearl.

Its people, an individual shape.

Life, a pot.

Reality, a stir.

Time, a cook.

All in aims to brew shades.

'Stir, stir' the living sings.

In the pot, plotting a cause.

Inside, a ship sinks with hundreds in its stomach.

The guiding captain swims to shore, with vigor to survive all on his own. On board the children cry, awaiting a rescue, from the outdoor sky.

The abandonment plunges the pot, brewing the most visceral grey.

In, many stayed behind, crossing the drowning hallways, into the salty sea.

'Give me your hand. We will all survive to the surface.' echoing compassion to the forsaken crowd.

Hand in hand, leaving none, striving to surface, united they become.

The unity plunders the plot, brewing the most delicate white.

From the caught shades,

What is your brush the most drawn to?

'Stir Stir', the living sings again,

In the pot, plotting another cause.

Inside, a mother leaves, her two sole children, in the hands of the viper'ish kind.

'So long! A must farewell!' The mother cries to her broken children and off she goes, to survive.

With surrounding so cruel, allowed was no child.

Thus, the left behind souls, grew tall too early.

With a taught repulsion to childhood, the two children were, with time, tall'ed towards parenthood.

The eldest dreaded their child's cry,

'shush!' and 'hush!', they maimed the child.

'You are not to cry. You are not to sing. You are not to pray. You are not to being.'

Lashing out tunes that they once heard someone scream.

Out from their way, spiraled out a violent shade of blue.

The youngest, however, remembered themself as a child, each pale tears out another, reminding of what the past had once offered, an inescapable turmoil, out their little hands.

'Safety a big word, speakable only by those tall.

And if I must speak, I shall speak, what you cannot but deeply deserve.'

Sang the youngest, and from their choice, surfaced a beautiful shade of gold.

From the produced shades,

What will your brush dive into?

'Stir Stir', sings the living, yet again.

In the pot, plotting the third cause of the day.

Inside, a man meets his potential friends.

More than three, there are, for him to choose.

With each, he spends half of his life.

With one, his early years, planning future adventures together, with their milky teeths.

The other ones, his early youth, during the forgetfulness of his passion, joining a new team. What and who came before, slowly fading out his growing mind. Tragedy ofcourse, the ticking time, that grew apart the early bond of innocence, that corrupted the later souls.

Poor was his fortune, as he made fickle friends who missed none of his absence, who described his nature using languages, ugly.

The deafening betrayal, the blinding disloyalty, breaking the youth's hope in comradery.

"He thinks he is all that! He said this and this about you! I tell you, he is rotten. We best believe to stay far apart from that mistake of a creature."

The faithful ears, delivered all those sayings right to his heart.

With wilting hope, 'Never again. Never again.' He cried.

Out from this terror, bursted forth a despicable shade of violet.

Passing many years, reaching the lines of thirty. There he met, a different crowd. Nolonger wearing similarities that once guaranteed him an unbreakable oath. Unfamiliar and unappealing, his reasonings found. But with years of meet, noticed he, the unyielding seek of his presence in a room empty of him, the uncorrupted gaze that recognized his truth, the untarnished tongue that spoke the correct terms in his descriptions, the valuable gaze that offered patience, the eager ears that pleaded for his words. This crowd, was different, so unalike his kind, so unalike his past aims. 'This time, have I made a friend?' with his surrendering heart, pondered he.

Out of this happening, emerged a hopeful shade of pink.

From the birthed shades,

In my hand was a blue kite, tied in strings red that which was in my hand.

I watched the wind seduce and charm, the blue kite that aimed for the sky.

Although threads in my grasp, I could not hold the very blue kite.

For it aimed, past this earth that I knew.

"This wind will take me where I am to fly,  if this wind shall pass, I will lose the only flight."

Cried the blue little kite, frail than the paper it was made of.

So I let the strings escape my hands.

And I watched it fly, to heaven knows where, together with the wind that it was charmed by.

Off it went, towards the sky of its dreams.